


The Fate of Those Who Mourn

by kinfic2



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:39:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>death of a pet</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fate of Those Who Mourn

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a personal catharsis for me than it is a fic.

From Webster’s Dictionary: A pet is any domesticated or tamed animal that is kept as a companion and cared for affectionately.

Monday, April 15, 2013

      As usual, my morning cat-rooster started meowing and crowing at the crack of dawn. Daylight savings time or standard time never mattered. Her inner clock did. When the first rays of a new day filtered through the darkness, she awoke. And so did I.

      Although she hadn’t eaten all of her breakfast, she was still her usual happy, loving, and mischievous self in the morning. But in the afternoon, she suddenly became lethargic and there was a distinct change in her breathing. Even at rest, her body heaved with every breath. Because of her advanced age, I immediately took her to the vet. He gave her a bronchodilator shot to open up the airwaves and an oral dose of a medication I don’t remember.  

      She slept for the rest of the day and although not her normal self, seemed to be improving. After scoffing up a plateful of finely diced chicken, I gave a hesitant sigh of relief. Maybe, just maybe, the ultimate crisis had been averted.

      Little did I know.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

      The night was awful. Every fifteen or twenty minutes she’d get up and whine plaintively before switching position and flopping back down on the floor. Desperate to ignore the laboured breathing that had started again in the middle of the night, I grabbed the blanket around me and lay down next to her, stroking her fur, murmuring nonsensical words of encouragement. Was it for her benefit or mine? I honestly don’t know.

      Staring into her eyes, I told her how much she was loved, how much she always _would_ be loved. Whenever she moved, so did I, absurdly trying to be a hopeful barrier of life against her looming shadow of death. I like to think it helped somewhat, that somewhere in her fading mind, she realized I was there.

      She started breathing from her mouth in the morning, as if she couldn’t get enough air in through her nose. Begging her to hold on, I was at the vet’s office as soon as it opened. He took one look and I could tell from his eyes, it wasn’t good. When he said her heart was racing because her lungs had filled with fluid and that even drawing blood in her weakened condition was risky, I started to inwardly shake. I would have given anything to turn the clock back. He was willing to try the bronchodilator medication again, but in my heart, I knew it would only postpone the inevitable a day at most and she would be suffering.

      I had to put aside _my_ selfish wants and needs—to take her home—and do what was best for her. She couldn’t speak. But I could. And I had to do it for her.

      Isn’t there a cosmic law that says when you do the right thing, you’re supposed to feel good? If there is, I broke it in spades. I’m intelligent enough to accept that the grief process is rational, that it’s necessary in order to heal. I’ve been there before with a pet; my sixteen year old dog died in my arms. But it doesn’t make the phantom meows and ghostly patters on the floor any easier.

      I also know that, like a setting sun and rising moon, this too shall pass—because time _will_ work its magic. In the weeks, months, and years to come, when a sound or scent triggers a memory, infusing my pores with her, I’ll be able to remember without sadness and recall without tears.  

      But for now, I wallow in pain.

                                           _“There’s a grief that can’t be spoken. There’s a pain goes on and on.”  ©_ _Claude-Michel Schönberg_

 


End file.
